A couple of months ago, a coworker got into my car and said, "It's good to know that I'm not the only one who keeps their car in this kind of condition."
You would think that would have shamed me into cleaning my car.
It did not.
It did not.
I am pretty sure that the last time I vacuumed out my car was at the K.s' when I was on my way back from camping in Other Western State last August.
Not the August we just had. The other August, the one before that.
I finally got around to the vacuuming thing on Sunday afternoon. I was just going to get my car washed, but it was sunny and I was wearing a clean dress with lots of white in it, so I figured it was just about the perfect time to get all dusty and risk flashing the busiest street in town.
I have no idea, really. I just saw people at the car wash vacuuming out their cars, and I suddenly had the urge to vacuum out my car, and I happened to be wearing a clean dress with lots of white in it. I was not going to let that stop me, though. I know better than to fight the cleaning urge when it (oh-so-seldom) hits.
So I plugged three dollars into the machine, one quarter at a time, and vacuumed my car's insides to a point where offering rides is no longer a humiliating experience.
Then I stopped at T@rget for some car-cleaning wipes and wiped down my dashboard and doors.
I hardly recognize that sparkling little sedan in the parking lot anymore. Not until I get up close and see the passenger seat, where I burned a permanent circle into the fabric by putting a hot pan of jollof rice straight into the car last November. Oh, right. I know you.